Tag: Facebook

Moms don’t go crazy because they are inherently crazy. There’s no ‘mom’ gene that I know of that makes us snap. We go crazy because of years of time deprivation. Time? Years of a lack of it? Yes. Yes, exactly.

Time spent doing things, even things you love, is not the same thing as time spent doing whatever the hell you want and need to do for yourself. It’s not that we don’t want to do what we’re doing–we do (“we” being my totally unauthorized way of speaking for all mothers… which at this point, you should realize, I don’t). I’m five months into this, and I’m already losing my shit. Not because I don’t want to be a mother– or a stay-at-home mother– or even what is shaping up to be one of those attachment parenting mothers– because I do. I am doing what I want to be doing. My life right now is a result of planned, deliberate, luck-drenched choices I’ve made.

However, no matter how much a person loves his or her job, is fulfilled by it, challenged by it, believes in its purpose– everyone needs breaks. And the nature of this job, folks, is that those breaks are few and far between. Even in the best, most privileged circumstances (I count myself, absolutely, to be in this group.)

I don’t mean for this to be one of those Reader’s Digest rants, or something that your mom’s friend or weird, yet folksy neighbor had stuck to their refrigerator or sent you on Facebook… even though I’m rehashing the same material, my education and upbringing somehow leads me to cringe at the comparison. They make good points, those trite little tidbits on mothering– the time invested, the socially invisible work, the effort that goes into the job without easily demonstrable outcomes at the end of each day (unless you get metaphorical on that sh#t, which is fair, but it isn’t the same as having a PowerPoint or report or sculpture or amount of cash or something else that the rest of society can look at and say, Yep, you’ve been working!)… And I agree with all of those points. Who wouldn’t, assuming we’re polling a group of people without their heads up their asses.

But my thing right now is the time. Life is spectacular, and I can roll with all the sh#t that comes along with the job because it’s worth it, but I also need time to myself. And as a stay at home, exclusively breastfeeding, first-time mother, I don’t have that. Even when I’m not “working” in this metaphor, I’m always on call. Always.

Case in point– my husband came home for a couple hours this afternoon so I wouldn’t lose my shit, and I’m taking a break from this short post to go breastfeed. —- Two boobs, a poop and a puke later, I’m back.

Ok, so my already dubious sense of focus is disrupted. I had some stuff lined up about Hanna Rosin, the stupid mommy war stuff and what it might signify, whether “soccer mom” is now a derogatory term, and what that might mean, a bit of feminist analysis of the “crazy mom” trope…and also some stuff about how my husband is a rock star, my dog is the coolest, and how I’ve got the greatest kid in the world, bar none. Oh. There was likely to be some basic grammatical editing involved as well.

But as far as time goes, at least I just had some. And that short bit of time to myself (which is now over– My Man just headed out the door back to work) makes me feel sane again. I feel good. Screw the editing. This was time well-spent. 😉

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The first trimester of a pregnancy (one’s first, in my case) can be a lonely time. If it was planned, the exaltation in actually managing to conceive on purpose is soon checked by the realization that:

One’s husband/partner is frustratingly pragmatic about not getting too excited, making too many plans, or telling too many (or any) people until the pregnancy progresses further.

One generally doesn’t (tactfully) Facebook the news right after the pee-stick changes, even though one feels like doing so (just after skywriting the news and printing up “We’re Pregnant!!!” T-shirts)

Close friends/confidantes/close relatives agree with the cautious approach of one’s husband in keeping things under wraps until you’ve at least seen the doctor.

An adult, educated woman who intentionally gets pregnant is most-likely aware of the many pitfalls that can occur in the early days of pregnancy. She probably has a philosophical approach outlined that is intended to accommodate the uncertainty of the time, the possibility of miscarriage or other travails, and to maintain a mental space for the “if at first you don’t succeed, try try again” attitude tempered with that pragmatism mentioned above.

That’s all well and good, but once the stick shows “positive”, it’s a whole new game.

What one knows can be quite different from what one feels…and to complicate things further, a recurring bit of advice from wiser women than oneself is that one should enjoy every moment of your pregnancy. Pragmatism and the full-body-embrace-of-living-and-loving-the-moment make odd bedfellows.

And yet it happens. And it generally works. I, lots of women, and Walt Whitman are okay with the fact that sometimes we contradict ourselves. We’re manifold. Deal with it.

It does, however, intensify the level of introspection in this trimester.

I don’t mean to be a downer. From the get-go, I was so hopeful and so pumped that the pregnancy test changed color…at first, I was absolutely (inexplicably) convinced that I’d willed the stick to change color and that perhaps I wasn’t actually pregnant. For one, it had been too easy. Fun, happy lovin’ sans condoms for a couple of weeks. No stress. No angst. No months and months of trying to conceive and considering fertility treatments and all the drama that is implied to be part and parcel for the 30-something-would-be-parents.

And after over half my life of trying not to get pregnant, and being successful, I was surprised that infertility wasn’t part of that ‘success’. Condoms really work, folks. Wow. Mindblowingly simple.

And not to mention that I still wake up sometimes and think “Holy crap! I’m married! That’s AWESOME!!!!”… getting my mind around the fact that I’m somehow ‘allowed’ to be married (strange as that sounds) took some time… then pregnancy?!? Wow.

And then there’s the realization that creation is going on in your uterus. In your uterus. That’s some real Carl Sagan shit right there.

So the future unfolds, you’re blown away by your new-found superpowers, you’re pumped, and eventually (usually after hearing the heartbeat for the first time), your partner allows him/herself to be psyched.

Nice 😉

Being who I am, I emailed Mom and Dad the second my urine produced that elusive 2nd pink line. And my bestie. And another couple girlfriends.

Being where I am, however, meant that we didn’t tell my Man’s parents or family until we had heard the heartbeat and we had the first ultrasound in hand to show them. It was very special when we did share the news with them, but the delay was not in my nature. Even close Portuguese friends were all very nonchalant about the fact that we didn’t say anything about the pregnancy for months.

…I’ll possibly continue this train of thought later 🙂 Until then, keep on keepin’ on!

Today was the Puppy’s first birthday, and the weather was perfect. We had a summery weekend. In Mafrica. Incredible. First, we hiked in Narnia (aka, the Tapada). Last week was … Continue reading Dog love…

TIME notes that “person of the year” isn’t an honor. It’s recognizing “the person who ‘for better or worse’ had done the most to change the news.” Past “persons of the year” have included Churchill, Gandhi, Einstein, Hitler, Kenneth Starr and the Ayatollah Khomeini. (Sadly, there aren’t a lot of women). The magazine’s current managing editor, Richard Stengel, notes (as VentureBeatreports) that Zuckerberg’s selection was based on the fact that his creation of Facebook is “both indispensible and a little scary.”

That’s an important characterization, which extends to Zuckerberg himself.